“He’s a rat and an ass.”
“The rest are okay, I guess.” Bo scrubbed a hand over his face. Dark shadows lurked under his red-rimmed eyes and he gave a soft sniffle. “Jameson O’Donoghue stepped up and told everybody to get back to work.”
Sounded like O’Donoghue, running around barking orders like he ran the place. Why he hadn’t left the bureau and returned to the DEA remained a mystery. Maybe they no longer wanted him. Lucky wouldn’t.
“How are you feeling?” Bo asked, dropping his gaze to Lucky’s waist and back to his face.
“Stop worrying about me. I’m fine.” If only Lucky could say the same about Walter. “Thanks for…” Lucky nodded at the food bag.
Bo gave a half-smile. “You’re here for the Smiths and I’m here for you. And them.”
Of course he was. “What do we do now?”
“We wait.”
“What time is it?” Lucky lacked the energy to check his cell phone.
“Just after one, but I figured you’d want to stay until we find out something solid. That might take a while.” Bo wrapped an arm around Lucky and pulled him close.
They’d gotten here around eleven. Two hours of not knowing whether Walter lived or died. “What about Todd and Ty? School lets out at three-thirty.”
“Ty rides the bus home, and they’re more than capable of fending for themselves for a few hours. We can stay as long as you like. Besides, Mrs. Smith will need a ride home.” Bo shook his head and bristled. “Would you believe someone at work suggested I call Uber for her? Uber! I’m not letting her get into the car with a stranger. Not as long as I’m around.”
Lucky agreed. He’d been brought up to take care of his elders, and if Walter was his second father, that made Mrs. Smith his second mother.
“You trust them to stay at the house alone?” Two teenagers weren’t the safest bet to act responsible without adult supervision. Hell, even with adult supervision Lucky had managed his share of trouble at their age.
Bo nodded. “Todd’s got a good head on his shoulders, and for all his bluster, Ty’s a pretty good kid. Just hurt and confused right now. They’ll be okay until we get there.” He hunkered down in the chair next to Lucky. “Finish eating and close your eyes. We might have a long wait ahead of us.”
A yawn creaked Lucky’s jaw. “What about you?”
“I ate my lunch in the car. The carrots looked good though.”
Lucky wrinkled his nose when Bo bit into the last orange stick. “If you say so.”
“You, eat, then rest.”
Lucky bounced a knee, pent-up frustration raining down.
The bag offered up a cup of potato salad and a spoon. Lucky ate. Resting might be impossible. Thoughts he’d successfully blocked returned with a vengeance. What would happen if Walter didn’t recover? Ever since Lucky first met the man, Walter had carried around a few pounds of extra weight—more than a few—and that he knew of, Walter never exercised.
Why hadn’t Lucky invited him on a run? He tried picturing the boss in a track suit. Okay, maybe a walk? Helped Mrs. Smith keep an eye on his diet? Lord knew the boss heaped enough sugar, caramel, and whipped cream into the liquid doughnut he called coffee. Lucky accepted early on with the bureau that Walter had been around forever and always would be. The place couldn’t possibly run without him.
Had Lucky been so busy with his own problems and his family that he’d not noticed something off about his mentor? He’d nearly lost one father this year, he didn’t want to lose the man he’d looked up to long before he’d been willing to admit it.
Most likely a heart attack, the paramedics said. Easy enough to believe given Walter’s physical condition. Still, doubt niggled in the back of Lucky’s mind.
The assholes at the main office had been urging Walter to retire. Maybe instead of being pissed off, he should’ve been trying to convince the boss to take things easier.
Bo didn’t suggest they go home, had even assured him they didn’t have to, knowing Lucky would want to stay without asking.
Doctors and nurses came and went through the double doors leading to where they’d taken Walter.
Each time one came out, Lucky’s heart missed a beat, until they ambled on past and he could breathe again.
Sooner or later, though, someone would come, and possibly say things Lucky didn’t want to hear.
He gave a heaving sigh, eyes stinging, recalling Walter and the bits and pieces he’d understood. “His breathing was down to six times per minute when we got here. Then dropped to four.” He raised his head from Bo’s comfortable shoulder to view Bo’s reaction. With his pharmacy background, the words might mean more to him than Lucky.
